Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. She might even forgive him. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note.
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